


tighten your approach, control the landing

by fernic



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: M/M, Track and Field, jeremy does the high jump, michael supports him and actively performs his duties as water boy, post-musical timeline, trigger warning for small body-issues mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-02-28 14:31:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13273458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fernic/pseuds/fernic
Summary: “Track? Interesting choice,” someone says.Jeremy turns around and sees it’s Jake, leaning against the bulletin and looking at Jeremy with a surprised smile.“Uh, yeah.”“I didn’t know you ran.”“I don’t.”Jake snorts. “So… why would you join track, then?”





	tighten your approach, control the landing

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes, the best solution to a problem is to run. In Jeremy's case, it's to join the school track team on an impulse caused by his therapist's worries and learn how to high jump.
> 
> This was written in one sitting and fueled by my memories of high-jumping before i stopped. This is mostly a self-indulgent track and field fic, but there are some body-image problems mixed in, so trigger warning for that. just know that most of this was written while listening to the Finesse remix by bruno mars with cardi B on repeat for like three hours, followed by a week of trash editing.
> 
> also this is my first bmc work, and im still eh about it. hopefully someone, at least, will like it.
> 
> _as of Feb 12, 2018, all minor spelling/grammatical errors have been fixed with the help of the lovely Kat (jim-morrisenpai on tumblr)._

When Jeremy tells his therapist he hates himself, he expects her to be worried. Instead, she nods her head slowly and says, “What, exactly, do you hate?”

Jeremy freezes. Of course, she wants him to elaborate. He supposes he should have realized that therapists aren’t like normal people who react in normal ways. They’re constantly in contact with fucked up people who think fucked up things, and maybe they’re a bit fucked up themselves because they always hear about those things. So he doesn’t really know what to say, really, and he doesn’t want to be annoying by shrugging and mumbling, ‘I don’t know,’ or scare her by saying, ‘everything’. Besides, it isn’t everything, really. It’s the normal amount of things.

“Is it bad?” Jeremy asks instead of answering. “Is it bad for me to not like something about myself?”

“I’d say it’s perfectly normal,” she replies. “Of course, everybody should strive to love themselves, but it’s normal to not like something and want to change. It’s unhealthy to hate too many things for no reason.”

“Oh.”

“Do you not feel comfortable telling me?”

“No,” Jeremy says, too quickly for it not to be an obvious lie. “I just- I don’t know why I said that. I think I just hate how I obsess over stupid stuff. Like what I look like.”

“You body? Do you think you’re too fat?”

“No,” Jeremy scoffs. She writes something down on her pad of paper.

“Too skinny?”

“Maybe, but I don’t hate that about myself. It’s more of how other people see me. I don’t think I look good to other people.”

She writes something else down. “Is that because you look skinny?”

“I don’t think I’m too skinny,” Jeremy grits out. “I just- I wanna stand out more. I want people to like how I look.”

“Jeremy,” she says, “is there any particular reason why you don’t think people like how you look?”

This makes him freeze. He can’t exactly tell her that he willingly took a pill that was programmed to make him think everyone saw terrible things in him everywhere he went. He also doesn’t know if that is the reason. If he hadn’t had a problem with himself before, why even both even taking the pill in the first place? He knows that there has to have been something in him that has always felt this way, even if it was small and mostly ignored.

“I don’t know,” Jeremy finally mumbles.

“That’s alright.”

“It really isn’t. If it wasn’t a problem, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Jeremy-“

“Can’t you do anything to help me?” He interrupts.

She sighs and pushes a thick curl of black hair behind her ear. “Yes, but it can’t all be me.” She digs around in her files and pulls out a pamphlet. “Read this. You have to work hard to heal yourself, too.”

Jeremy doesn’t think it’s all that fair. It’s not like he isn’t trying to heal himself. He’s trying really fucking hard. He’s been doing the stupid mirror exercises she told him about. He’s been trying to be less harsh on himself, trying to avoid any breakdowns or negative cycles of thought. Obviously, it wasn’t enough, if he was still like this. Obviously, something in him was resisting, and he can’t blame it on a stupid pill this time around. 

“Just try, Jeremy,” She says as she walks him out the door. Jeremy doesn’t have the heart to tell her that he really, really is.

*

“She sounds like a total bitch,” Michael says to him through the phone.

“She isn’t,” Jeremy automatically says. He’s brushing his teeth though, and the words are all frothy and it sounds like _shme ismn._ He spits into the sink and repeats himself. “She really isn’t.”

Michael sighs and groans. Jeremy knows he’s playing a game of some kind because he keeps making those little grunt noises. Either that, or he’s masturbating, something that Jeremy, honestly, wouldn’t be too surprised by. 

“You know,” Michael suddenly says, “You could always sign up for a sport or something.” 

“I could,” Jeremy agrees. He gurgles a cup of water and splashes the rest on his face. “But don’t you think that’d make it worse? I mean, I’d just be surrounded by a bunch of people who look better than me. How will that help with my body issues?” He pauses and frowns. “And also, why the fuck does my therapist think I have body issues?”

“See? Total bitch. You look perfectly fine to me,” Michael says. “What pamphlet did she give you again?”

Jeremy leaves the bathroom and walks to his bedroom, picking up the pamphlet he discarded on his desk and holding his phone between his shoulder and ear as he opens it and reads, “A Guide to Loving and Accepting your Body. What the fuck?”

Michael snorts. “Read me something.”

“‘ _Although you might not know it, hip and chest development is a normal stage of growth, and does not translate into you being overweight-_ ’ This is literally for twelve-year-old girls. Stop laughing!”

“I’m sorry,” Michael wheezes. Jeremy sighs. “I’m sorry,” Michael says again, and this time he sounds somewhat earnest. “Really, go on.”

Jeremy continues. “‘ _If you feel self-conscious about your body, committing to a regular schedule of physical activity may give you a boost of confidence-_ ‘

“See! I told you.”

“Whatever,” Jeremy mumbles. He throws the pamphlet back into his bed and sits down.

After a minute of silence, Jeremy hears faint crackling, and Michal sighs. “Jeremy, if it makes you feel any better, I think you’re perfect just the way you are.”

Hearing that makes Jeremy’s entire body heat up. “Shut up,” he whines. He knows Michael is joking, knows he’s just trying to get him to laugh or hang up in pretend anger or annoyance. Because that’s what Michael does; he jokes and laughs and doesn’t mean much of what he says.

“I mean, seriously. A little knobbly around the knees, but you have a nice ass.”

“Alright, fuck off,” Jeremy snorts. Michael snickers, but then he stops, and Jeremy thinks maybe that he hung up, but then Michael asks, “Do you really not like how you look?”

Jeremy feels his mouth go dry. He stands up and walks over to his mirror. “I don’t- I don’t really know.”

It’s weird, how he feels. It goes beyond the general wishing of a more muscular, more filled out frame. He doesn’t wish he was skinnier—if he weighed any less he’d probably need to get treated for malnutrition— nor does he wish he was jacked with muscles. He just wishes he looked… different. In a world full of uniqueness and originality, Jeremy Heere was bland, and that thought made his chest feel sticky with fear. 

Of course, Michael wouldn’t get it because Michael didn’t have a problem looking different. Michael has a cool red hoodie and vintage sneakers and always wears crazy socks up to his calves. He rolls up his jeans and has hipster glasses and is effortlessly unique. People looked at Michael. People wondered about him. He stuck in people’s memories like gum on the bottom of a table, messy and hard to get rid of unless you scraped it off.

Jeremy looks at his bare chest, at how he can see the outline of his ribs every time he exhales. He sees how his collarbones jut out and his elbows are dry and too pointy. He looks at his feet, bony and pale, and how his ankles are fragile and his hips are lean. He looks like a stick, too frail, like a gust of wind any stronger than a whisper of a breath will knock him right off his feet.

“I think it’s just because of the whole squip thing,” Jeremy lies. But maybe it isn’t a lie. His squip certainly was hard on him, making him hate everything about himself, forcing him to look in the mirror and point out every flaw. Maybe Jeremy settled too deep into the routine of over-analyzing everything he did, everything he said and wore.

“Maybe,” Michael says softly. And then, “It’s okay if it isn’t, you know. I don’t like myself all the time. I think it’s normal to have bad days.”

“I know.”

“I’m just saying that you don’t have to be okay with yourself one hundred percent of the time. It’s okay-“

“Michael, I know,” Jeremy snaps. He feels bad for being snippy right after he says it. “Sorry.”

Michael doesn’t speak for a minute. “I need to sleep,” he finally mumbles. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” And then he hangs up, and Jeremy is all alone, with only his reflection in the mirror to keep him company.

*

When he sees the flyer for the school’s track and field team taped to his locker, he takes it as a little nudge from fate, a small nod in what might be the right direction. He sighs and rips the flyer off of his locker, folding it up and stuffing it in his pocket. Then, he goes back to the school’s front entrance and walks up to the huge bulletin board that’s covered with colorful sheets of paper and posters that announce new clubs, town events, and upcoming sports games. Half covered by an anti-drug use poster is the Track sign-up board, and Jeremy signs his name quickly. 

“Track? Interesting choice,” someone says. Jeremy turns around and sees it’s Jake, leaning against the bulletin and looking at Jeremy with a surprised smile.

“Uh, yeah.”

“I didn’t know you ran.”

“I don’t.”

Jake snorts. “So… why would you join track, then?”

“There’s field events too.” Jeremy jumps and snaps his head to see Christine standing beside him. 

“Ah,” Jake hums. He pokes her forehead and looks at Jeremy and frowns. “But that’s, like, Shotput and Discus. You have to train and shit.”

Jeremy hears the underlying meaning: “You have to be strong for that.”

“No,” Christine corrects, “There’s long jump, pole vault, and high jump.” She looks at Jeremy and smiles. “I think it’s really great that you’re trying new things, Jer.”

Of course, she does. She was trying to be especially nice to him, after their breakup at the end of their sophomore year. Jeremy gives her a small smile and tries not to grimace. He thinks he sees Rich coming up to them, and he really doesn’t want to be subject to his teasing about how Jeremy was too geeky for any sort of sport. Or maybe he’d say that Jeremy would fit in perfectly with the rest of the track team, which had the credit for never cutting people and thus catered all of the athletes rejected from even the JV teams.

Whatever. Jeremy shouldn’t be surprised that the whole squip-apocalypse thing didn’t completely change everything for the better. Sure, Rich was his friend, but his constant joking was annoying, even if now he talked with a lisp. 

Jeremy excuses himself and goes to the library. He walks to the study section and down to the old autobiography section. Michael isn’t there, though, and he feels another surge of guilt for snapping at him on the phone last night. He sends him a quick text, telling him about signing up for track and says sorry for being snappy, then asking if he wants to hang out after school. It’s not a proper apology without Michael being there, but it’s a start, so Jeremy just turns around and goes to his homeroom twenty minutes before the first bell, the idea of the track meeting looming in his head.

*

The track uniform he gets is old and itchy. The coach is his old math teacher, Ms. Russo, and she takes one look at him and tells him to go with a sophomore named Katie. She is short and a little plump, but it turns out she’s the best discus thrower they have, which is pretty impressive because she’s so young.

“Track isn’t always running, although sometimes our Field guys have to participate in the relays,” She explains. “You’re pretty tall, so one of the jumping events will be good for you.”

He tries long jump, but he doesn’t really get the right position in the air, and because of it, he doesn’t get as far as he knows he could. Katie insists it isn’t an issue and takes him over watch the pole vaulters. Just the thought of leaping that high over the ground using a pole makes Jeremy want to heave into the nearest trash bin, and they leave before it’s even his turn to try. By that time, Ms. Russo calls them all over to stretch as a group, and they both go back to the center of the gym.

He stretches with the discus group. Katie notes that he is very flexible for a boy after she presses down on his shoulders and his chest almost touches the gym floor between his legs. He doesn’t want to tell her that he does yoga, often three classes a week, upon his therapist's request, so he lies and tells her he’s always been like this.

“It’s a good thing,” she assures. “Can you do a backbend?”

“I don’t think so,” Jeremy says. 

She makes him try it anyway. She spots him, arms held out to catch him if he falls. It turns out he’s right when he said he couldn’t do a full backbend, but he can bend pretty far back, neck relaxed and head hanging back while he leans his hands on the back of his knees. Katie is completely upside down like this, and it looks creepy when she smiles down at him and says, “I think I’ve got something you’ll be really good at.”

*

Jeremy is sore by the time practice is over.

After the whole backbend attempt, Katie had brought him to the corner of the gym, where five other students were running up to a set of poles and jumping over them backward, their bodies arched in a perfect curve to clear the pole.

“It’s called the high jump,” Katie said. She brought him over another set of practice poles, only instead of a metal rod, there was a long rubber band stretched between the two poles. “That way it won’t hurt if you hit it,” Katie explained.

“Perfect,” Jeremy had gritted out. One of the experienced high-jumpers, a senior named Andrew, proceeded to teach him how to run up to the pole, and when to twist his body and take off. 

“Ideally, you only need ten strides before you jump,” the boy explained. “It’s important that you gain the right momentum to clear the pole, so those ten strides are the most important part of the whole jump.”

Jeremy learned that he had to run in a J shape to approach the pole. He did just that for half an hour, Andrew constantly reminding him, “Don’t ever slow down. Slowing down means all of your momenta is lost.”

At five, the whole team was called in a circle and they talked about the upcoming meet, which was in two weeks. Ms. Ross handed Jeremy a schedule, told him she’d try to find him a better uniform, and sent him on his way.

Now, Jeremy waits outside for Michael. It’s cold, the edges of winter still clinging to the season of spring, and Jeremy regrets not taking the extra time to change back into his jeans if it meant not shivering out by the back of the school. 

“Nice shorts.”

Jeremy turns around and sees Michael, sipping from a carton of chocolate milk and sliding his headphones around his neck. Jeremy rolls his eyes and says, “They couldn’t find anything longer.” The shorts are pretty short, he guesses, hanging at least three inches above his knees, the fraying of the fabric ticking the inside of his thighs. Michael stares at his legs and shrugs.

“If anyone could pull them off, it’s you,” he assures, nodding his head in the direction of his car. While they walk, he bumps his shoulder into Jeremy’s. “How was track?”

“Interesting,” Jeremy answers. “You weren’t in the library this morning.”

“I slept in,” Michael says. “I got your text, though. Don't worry about last night, and obviously, I’m taking you up on the offer to chill.”

“Oh, nice.” Jeremy pulls helplessly on the passenger side car door, groaning when Michael digs around to his keys. He’s cold and sore and hasn’t been this exhausted since the nights after the squip attack-- when his whole brain was fried and thoughts and voices still occasionally buzzed through his head. They still do, sometimes, but at least now he knows how to shut them the hell up. Once Michael unlocks the car, Jeremy jumps in, holding down the button to start the engine and ramping up the heat as high as it will go. Something lands in his lap, and he looks down and sees Michael’s sweatshirt in his lap, dark red and still a bit warm.

“A makeshift blanket for you,” Michael explains, pulling his safety-belt across his chest. He turns on the radio and it’s tuned to an old radio station, one that’s playing a Nirvana song. Michael fiddles with that knobs of his radio until it plays Bruno Mars, and then he smiles and pulls out of the school parking lot. Jeremy stares at Michael’s sweatshirt in his lap, until he finally spreads it across his legs and folds his hands inside of it. It’s soft on the inside, like a fuzzy blanket. No wonder Michael always wears it. 

Michael sings along to the radio and proceeds to dance in his seat when he reaches a red light, and Jeremy raises his eyebrows when Michael winks at him when he catches him staring. “You’re crazy,” Jeremy says slowly. 

“Only for you,” Michael snorts. “Seriously though, what'd you do? Just run?”

Jeremy tells him. He talks about Katie and all the stretching and how, apparently, he’s pretty flexible for a guy. He tells him about the high jump last. About how he now knows the way he has to pace himself to the bar. “I only cleared it twice,” he admits, “but I think I’ll get better.”

“You’ll definitely get better,” Michael assures. “And when you start to go to the meets, I’ll watch you compete!”

Jeremy’s hands tighten into fists in the fabric of Michael’s hoodie and his mouth goes dry. They’re pulling up to his driveway now, and he opens the car door before it even brakes, slipping Michael’s hoodie on top of his shirt and pulling up the collar to hide his smile. Michael shakes his head as he parks the car, and shouts, “That’s super dangerous you know!”

“Get my keys from my bag,” Jeremy shouts back.

Ten minutes later they’re in his basement. Jeremy has since stripped himself of the horrid, most likely smelly uniform and now wears a pair of sweatpants and a plain white tee. Michael’s hoodie is spread across his lap, and Michael is sitting right next to him, so close almost every part of him is brushing against Jeremy is some way.

“You know, in order to actually achieve a heist properly, we have to go in undetected,” Jeremy grits out.

Michael scoffs, “No fun in that,” and then proceeds to shoot about five security guards. They’re playing Payday, and usually, Jeremy can focus on the game and the objectives, but for some reason, he’s too keenly aware of Michael sitting right beside him. It’s distracting; Michael’s elbow and how it rubs into his side every time he sees an enemy, his knee and how it weighs down on top of Jeremy’s; it’s like Jeremy is surrounded by a little bubble of all Michael, his smell like clean laundry and a hint of mint, which must be the gum he’s chewing. Jeremy’s whole body is hot and he feels weirdly nervous, and his pulse jumps when Michael swears and falls into his lap in misery, his side of the screen flashing the countdown clock until his respawn time. Jeremy tosses his controller next to Michael’s and lets himself die. He tangles his hands into Michael’s hair and yanks.

“Ow!”

“I told you, we have to be stealthy!”

“Fuck off,” Michael whines. He rolls over so the back of his head rests on Jeremy’s thigh. His muscles ache with even the slightest pressure, and Jeremy goes to yank Michael’s hair again, but instead, Michael sighs and smiles and looks up at him, eyebrows raised. Jeremy blatantly realizes that he’s actually carding his fingers through Michael’s curls, nails lightly scratching at his scalp. Immediately, he pulls his hand away and lies his back down flat on the floor with a groan.

“We always lose,” he says, hoping that whatever just happened will be ignored. He also hopes that the ceiling caves in and kills him instantly on impact.

He feels Michael shrug. “One day you’ll see that going all in is the best way to do everything in life.”

Jeremy sits up on his elbow and looks at Michael with a scowl. “Everything?”

“Yup,” Michael says, popping the ‘ _p_ ’ and pinching Jeremy’s thigh. Jeremy yells and his leg spazzes, and Michael snickers and sits back up, running his fingers through his hair. Jeremy tracks the movement with his eyes, watches Michael’s tanned fingers push black strands of hair away from his face, and he has the sudden urge to reach forward and do it for him. After all, he was basically petting Michael before, and, although amused, he didn’t seem to have an actual problem with it. He could just sit up right now and do it, and just the thought of that makes him feel nervous and fuzzy on the inside.

“Hey, Jer,” Michael says softly. Jeremy looks back at Michael’s face and freezes, because something's different, and he suddenly knows what he’s feeling, or knows what to compare it to because it isn’t the first time he’s felt this way. 

Jeremy’s throat is dry and scratchy, and it feels like days before he finally remembers how to speak again. “What?” he asks. Michael is closer, chewing on the inside of his cheek and his thumbs are fiddling with his hoodie, which is still partially draped over Jeremy’s thighs and bunched around his waist. 

(It’s like he’s a sophomore again, sweating and stuttering and staring at Christine with so much longing he wonders how she didn’t realize. It’s like he’s being plunged into an ice bath of feelings and he’s suddenly caught up in wondering how the fuck he didn’t catch on sooner, and if it would have made a difference if he did.)

Michael suddenly pulls back and looks up towards the stairs that lead up to Jeremy’s kitchen, and Jeremy feels like his breath has been pulled out of his lungs.

“Nothing,” Michael says. He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, and then gets up to his feet and offers Jeremy his hand. “You wanna go get some food? I’m starved.”

*

Jeremy pours all of himself into track.

He learns more and more about his technique, about his body and how it moves in the air. He learns how to understand his body’s instinct to curl up and hunch over in the air, and he learns how to grit his teeth and fight it.

And, surprisingly, he really, really loves it.

He loves the push off, the feeling of floating before his shoulder and back make impact with the mat. He loves bouncing on the fluffy air, entrapped in dirty tarp, staring up at the gym ceiling and hearing one of the other high jumpers call out a praise or congratulate him. Slowly, the height of the band goes up. Slowly, Jeremy gets better.

It also distracts him from understanding things like his strangeness around Michael. He doesn’t have time to worry about his weird feelings and nerves when he’s too busy scheduling practice in with increasing amounts of homework and massaging sore muscles and jumping over and over and over again. Of course, they still hang out almost as regularly as they did before, but now Jeremy is mostly talking about track or playing video games with him (without a repeat of the incident before) to really stress over things. All in all, he’s not as panicky, and it’s for the better.

It’s been a week and a half of practice every other day when Jeremy walks into the gym and sees there’s only one practice jump set up, and it isn’t the band. It’s the pole, hard and strong and much, much more intimidating. 

That same day, Michael drives him home and helps him apply ice to the blossoming bruise on his back.

“How many times did you hit it?” Michael asks.

“I stopped counting after twenty-seven,” Jeremy grumbles. He’s laying on his stomach, shirtless, on Michael’s bed, filling in the answers to his history homework. His lower back is numb from the cold, and yet he’s still sweating and his heart is thumping loud in his chest.

“Oh,” Michael says. He presses the ice harder into Jeremy’s back, and water dribbles down his spine. “And how many times did you actually make the jump?”

“Six- no, seven. My best height so far is still 5’4.”

“Hm,” Michael hums. “Not bad, after a week.”

Jeremy grins. “Yeah. Ow.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I think I’m good now.”

Michael removes the ice and passes Jeremy his shirt, using his own sleeve to wipe the dampness on his skin. Jeremy hisses when he presses too hard, and Michael mumbles another apology and pulls away, getting up from his position hunched over to let Jeremy sit up and pull his shirt back on.

“We’ll ice it before we go to bed,” Michael says. “That way it won’t be swollen for tomorrow.”

Jeremy just hums and rolls over on his side, pushing his head into Michael’s pillow. It smells like him, obviously, and Jeremy has the urge to grab it and clutch it close to his chest and never let it go. He cracks his eyes open and sees Michael pacing around his room before he pulls a book out of his backpack. He turns around and cracks a small smile at Jeremy. 

“Tired already?” he asks. 

Again, Jeremy hums. He glances over at his homework, half completed in his messy scrawl, and then at Michael, who is digging through his closet until he pulls out another quilt. He throws it at Jeremy, who doesn’t even bother to catch it. Instead, he lets it hit him, the fabric balled up and draped over his shoulders and neck and back. 

“Take a nap. I need to help my sister with her homework once she gets back from school anyways,” Michael says. Jeremy wants to get up and say no, he’ll be fine, but he’s too tired, and it isn’t like he’s never napped at Michael’s before (during finals, they often studied and slept in the same room for the entire duration of the week), so he just hums again and kicks his way under Michael’s covers, soft cotton laying heavy on his sore body. 

He’s already half asleep when Michael walks over and pokes him lightly on the cheek, taking the quilt and properly laying it over him with a muttered, “Goodnight buddy,” before he leaves the room, and Jeremy naps surrounded by warmth and Michael’s smell.

*

He has a dream.

It’s dark and it’s hot, and there are hands on him, running down his shoulders and up his shirt and grabbing his thighs. They’re not unwelcome touches. They’re full of want and Jeremy is wriggling and writhing from where he sits on the jumping mat, panting and straining to see who it is, who the hands belong to.

Teeth nip at his neck. Jeremy twists his head. Lips brush over the shell of his ear from behind him. Jeremy swivels to look. He can’t see anyone, but the touch is familiar and old and satisfying. It’s nothing like when Christine touched him, soft hands with filed nails. This isn’t rough, but it isn’t gentle. It’s uncaring, sporadic, heart racing.

“Michael,” Jeremy hears himself say, and then he wakes up, body hot and blood boiling, ice-cold shock spreading through him and making his heart feel like it’s caving in on itself. He blinks slowly, adjusting to the weight of heavy blankets on top of him, to the slickness of sweat on his stomach and legs, to the tightness in his stomach that means he’s definitely at least a little bit hard, right now, and to the way his toes curl into Michael’s bed with the familiar feeling of it.

That stupid, disgusting, familiar feeling he gets after any dream like that. That same feeling that he’s been getting around Michael. The same feeling that caused this to happen.

He spends the next fifteen minutes thinking of old naked women and dead people just to get rid of it.

*

_Google Search by @heere.jeremy, at 11:24 pm, Thursday:_

_Is it normal to have dreams about your friend?_

_Dreams about best friend?_

_Sexual dream about guy when you’re a guy_

_Fuck adkhadf_

*

“Remember, you can’t close your eyes in midair,” Andrew reminds to him. “Once your upper body has passed over the pole, you need to turn your head and watch it. That’s how your lower half will ease over it.”

Jeremy nods, rubbing his ankle. He was up another three inches, but the backs of his knees and calves kept hitting the pole. Now, his ankle pulses steadily with an echo of pain, which means it’s most definitely bruised. 

“You okay?” Andrew asks. Jeremy grits his teeth, nods, and scoots off of the mat. He walks to the thin line of blue tape stuck to the dirty gym floor. He looks at Andrew, and who nods and says, “The bar is at 5’8. Ready?” 

“Yeah,” Jeremy says. He jumps up once in place and then leaps forward. He takes medium, bouncy steps with his jog, feels his muscles tighten and pull at his legs. The build-up of momentum before he jumps is always a bit odd because he feels everything. He notes the feeling of air curling around his skin and how his knee bends ar he takes off, his right leg naturally moving up and tucking against his stomach as he leaps up and pivots his body in the air. Everything in him screams to curl up in a ball and prepare for impact, but he forces himself to straighten, to arch his back and quickly flick his gaze over his right shoulder to watch the bar as his lower half swiftly brushes over it, the hem of his shirt only barely skimming the pole.

Andrew claps, and Jeremy smiles. Andrew says, “I think you’re ready to start competing at meets.”

Jeremy’s smile falls. “But… I hit the bar way more often than I clear it.”

Andrew shrugs. “It’s better to have those odds, at least. Besides, competing is fun. Doesn’t it get boring, watching all the time and not being able to actually do anything?”

Jeremy just shrugs. He has gone to all the meets, ever since he joined the track team-- it’s a requirement, after all-- and he can’t really say he enjoyed himself, but he didn’t loathe it either. He always got the runners water and watched the high jump event, and once, he even took part in a relay, although he still feels bad for being the reason why they lost (he tripped and skinned his knee). Competing at meets is something else entirely. It’s jumping in front of everyone, instead of the six other leapers on his school team. It’s nerve-racking and terrifying.

“You’ll do fine,” Andrew says with a tight smile. He obviously sees how uncomfortable Jeremy is.

“Yeah,” Jeremy says, “I guess.”

His dad picks him up from practice, this time. He tells him about the meet, and about how he’s actually going to be jumping this time, and, of course, his dad is all for it because it’s any father’s dream, he supposes, to have an athlete as a son. A stupid dream, since every father should be proud of their kid no matter what they do, but Jeremy knows far too well that society is fucked and, therefore, does fucked up things, such as create bad politicians and influence crazy scientists in Japan to create world-dominating seeking pills and makes fathers want a true athlete for a son, and so he pays it no mind.

“It’s just a track meet,” he says to his dad as he pulls into the garage.

His dad shakes his head. “It’s not just a track meet, bud. It’s the attitude. You’re finally getting interested in stuff that isn’t, I don’t know, video games. Or Michael.”

Jeremy almost chokes on his breath, and he freezes from where he is standing in the garage, car door almost closed but not quite. “Interested?” he croaks. “In Michael?”

“Yeah.” his dad waves his hand in the air dismissively as he pulls the key out of the ignition. He groans when he opens his door and gets out. “You know, you’re always with Michael. It’s good to see you’re making new friends. Or at least trying something new on your own.” 

Slowly, Jeremy nods. “Sure,” he croaks, turning away to rush inside.

When he gets to his room, he texts Michael.

_(6:32 pm) Gonna be at the meet this weekend._

He waits a minute for Michael to text back, because usually, he answers right away, unless he isn’t already busy with something, but no little bubbles appear in the bottom corner of his screen, and so he tosses his phone onto his bed and instead he sits at his desk and pulls out all of his uncompleted homework.

School has been harder since he joined the team. Now, he stays up late and wakes up with eyes that burn and sink into his skull. Junior year is the worst, with standardized tests to prep for and college to think about, and joining the track team certainly hasn’t made any of it easier, but at the same time, it kind of has. Jumping, at least, allows him to pour all the stress he feels into movement, instead of having it all bottle up. The exhaustion is worth it, Jeremy thinks.

He has fallen asleep at Michael’s house one other time, now, which is embarrassing and he knows it must be annoying for Michael, to sit in his room doing nothing while he naps. Michael, of course, insists it’s no problem. He took a picture of Jeremy, once, drool slipping past his lips and dampening Michael’s pillow, the blankets tangled and twisted under and around his legs. Jeremy chased him around the entire house to steal his phone to delete it.

Of course, Michael had fallen, and Jeremy had fallen on top of him, and it was that cliche moment of looking down at Michael’s face and realizing, _holy shit, I could kiss him right now_ , and remembering that dream he had, which made something pang in his chest, a pulling sensation down to his stomach and a wave of nausea that made Jeremy blink a few times in shock. This was followed by five seconds of awkward scrambling that ended with him accidentally kneeing Michael right in the crotch, and spending the next five minutes tripping over apologies, face bright red and hot, while Michael wheezed and insisted that it was fine, just fine.

Jeremy’s phone rings and he jolts up. It’s Michael.

**(6:47pm) ahh Jeremy!**

**(6:47 pm) emailing ms russo rn**

**(6:48pm) aaaaaand okay i signed up for waterboy**

_(6:49pm) michael you dont have to come.._

**(6:49) im coming**

Jeremy sighs. It’ll be fine, he tells himself. Because Michael is his friend, his best, closest friend, and he should feel happy and excited over Michael watching him compete, not nervous with a twinge of anxiety curling in his belly, a feeling that clings to him for the entire night.

*

“Are you excited?” Michael asks for the fifteenth time. Jeremy, once again, shrugs. “Come on,” Michael says, “You gotta at least be feeling _something_.” He’s digging his elbow into Jeremy’s side. It hurts and makes his ribs sore, but Jeremy feels something in his chest wind up all the same.

They’re waiting outside for the bus to pick them up. The track team is big, unsurprisingly, and so the two other buses left, leaving the small group of leaders from the high jump and pole vault behind. Jeremy and Michael stand apart from the small huddles of people, Michael bobbing his head slightly to the music streaming from his phone into one of his earbuds, and Jeremy, shivering beside him, trying not to speak because then it’ll show how his teeth have started to chatter.

Beside him, Michael suddenly jumps up. “Oh!” he says, and Jeremy doesn’t even have time to look confused because he’s too busy jumping away. Michael has become a fast blur of limbs and fabric, and Jeremy just stares, until Michael, disheveled and smiling stupidly, holds out his sweatshirt. 

Jeremy just looks at it. “Um…”

“You’re cold,” Michael says. Jeremy doesn’t reach out to take it, so he huffs and grins and forces it over Jeremy’s head. 

“Ow- Hey- Michael!” Jeremy whines. Michael dresses him like he’s shoving a sweatshirt on a toddler throwing a fit, wrenching Jeremy’s arms through the sleeves and pulling the sweatshirt down until finally, he can actually see. Now, Jeremy knows he looks just as messy as Michael, and he frowns, wrapping his arms around his middle. “I didn’t ask for your sweatshirt,” Jeremy mumbles.

Michael shrugs and peers past the school gate, right at the small bus that is just starting to signal for the turn into the school driveway. “I know,” he says, turning back to Jeremy and shrugging. “But you needed it.” And then he purses his lips and brushes Jeremy’s hair away from his forehead, hand lingering, standing suddenly so close and looking at Jeremy so intensely and—

Jeremy holds his breath—

Michael flicks Jeremy’s forehead and snorts. “Come on,” he says, “Time for me to dutifully perform my duties as water boy.”

“Dutifully perform your duties,” Jeremy repeats with a small laugh. It feels forced, like half the sound is lodged in his throat and only barely escaping.

They claim a seat in the middle of the bus, the very back having been claimed by the pole vaulters, who lay their poles in a pile on the aisle, scolding anyone who accidentally steps on one. “You think that they’d put the poles down last after everyone sits down if they didn’t want them to be stepped on,” Michael mumbles to Jeremy, pulling him into a three seater. He claims the window seat because he gets car sickness easily, and that’s just fine with Jeremy because he likes having the space of the aisle better anyways. Jeremy makes sure there are more than a few inches of empty space between them when they sit.

Right when the bus doors slide close with an echoing squeak, Michael puts his earbuds back in and throws Jeremy a questioning glance. Jeremy just smiles and nods his head, and Michael closes his eyes and presses play on his phone. Jeremy knows that he listens to music so he won’t get nauseous, so he doesn’t mind. Besides, he kind of wants the quiet. Talking about the meet only makes his heart speed up in weird palpitations. One day, this kind of stress is going to kill him.

So, because Michael is out of commission for the next half hour, and because doing nothing for thirty minutes on a bus freezing his ass off is going to make him go crazy, Jeremy reads. It’s a book he’s had on his shelf for a while now, stuffed with war and street fighting and two people, both from different sides of the world, both of them fighting to find the truth. It’s a book he had once read over and over ardently. Then sophomore year happened, and suddenly reading wasn’t something he was supposed to do anymore. Instead, he was meant to go to parties and wear Eminem shirts and make his best friend cry and hate his dad.

He thinks that reading again means that he’s getting better. 

So he reads, and he gets a little of a stomach-ache, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. He’s too lost in the world that’s written out for him, everything making sense, everything fitting together perfectly. Right now, the boy is realizing he might love the girl because, of course, that seems to happen in every young adult fantasy nowadays. Right now, she’s brushing her hair and he’s watching her, the coin he always wears around his neck clenched tightly in his fist.

“Sensual,” Michael whispers, right into Jeremy’s ear. He gives a little jump-- he forgot Michael was even there for a second-- before he twists and hits Michael on the shoulder.

“Shut up. It’s part of the plot.”

“Ah yes,” Michael laughs, “Because it’s totally part of the plot to creepily watch a sixteen-year-old girl brush her hair.”

“It’s supposed to be cute,” Jeremy says, but the word cute feels wrong. It’s not about being cute, it’s about finding something endearing in the way they perform the most menial of tasks. “It’s supposed to show that he’s noticing her differently,” he corrects himself. There, that’s somewhat better. He closes the book. Michael frowns.

“You didn’t have to stop reading.”

Jeremy shrugs. “I’ve read it before. This part isn’t all that exciting. Just awkward.”

Michael says nothing. It’s not silent on the bus. Anything but, really. The pole vaulters are arguing over who forgot the hand chalk, and Andrew is blasting some indie band from his speaker while Katie screams the lyrics. But it’s quiet here, right now, in the small bubble of space that sits between them. It’s a soft silence that holds something, a tension, almost, but nothing too intense, or distracting. Just a shadow of waiting, a pause, only strong enough that Jeremy just barely knows it’s there.

Slowly, without a word, Michael rests his head on Jeremy’s shoulder.

“Keep reading,” Michael says softly. Jeremy blinks. He doesn’t know what to do. There isn’t a manual, for this sort of thing, no kind of instruction on how to react when your best friend has been sending weird signals for over a month, for when you think you’ve been sending some back, for when you’re trying to figure it out when suddenly they lean their head on your shoulder and everything fades into the simple knowledge of what their shampoo smells like.

(Like mangos. Intoxicating and suffocating and wonderful.)

“Jeremy,” Michael says and Jeremy flips open the book and silently reads.

*

He jumps. He doesn’t make it.

So he does it again. And again. Three tries, that’s all he has, and each time, he fails.

(In his head, something buzzes and crackles and scratches against his skull and says his name, says his fucking name and Jeremy almost throws up. It goes away, but not before it tells him that the bar wasn’t even at his record height.)

( _5’3_ , it whispers, _you can’t even clear a fucking 5’3._ )

This time, Jeremy leans his head on Michael’s shoulder. It’s warm and nice and makes things only a bit better.

*

The next scheduled meet is a Saturday.

This, of course, means figuring out if his dad can drop him off at school. This time, it’s a home competition, which Jeremy supposes should give him some advantage. Now, at least, he won’t be overwhelmed by an unknown area. 

He practices more, somehow. He’s late on half of his school assignments and hasn’t even started a term paper that’s due on how the feminist lens applies to Shrek, but he doesn’t care because he’s not going to fail again. He likes jumping, loves the way it feels when he leaps over the bar, loves how it’s slowly becoming more instinctual to his body. His muscles are learning, his body is growing to remember the feeling of being in the air, and he finds that he actually yearns for it.

So he keeps pushing himself. He knows he can do it because he’s done it before. He was nervous and anxious and it fucked with his head, but that’s okay. It’s fine because he tells himself he will do better, and he will.

 _Progressive thinking_ , his therapist called it. Focusing on the positives in a negative situation. Pushing and pushing and pushing, even though his body feels like it might break, and he’s so exhausted he’s gone back to nodding off during his study hall and sleeping as soon as he gets home from practice. 

The week passes by quickly, so fast it feels like Jeremy breathes in the days. He spends two to three hours practicing every day, and only takes off on Friday, and not even because he wants to. Michael is vehement about spending time with him, and Jeremy only agrees because he doesn’t want to be sore tomorrow, not when he wants to be in good condition to jump. Having thighs that ache every time he bends won’t help him get the height he needs, and certainly won’t put him in a good mood either.

“I’ll drive us there. We don’t have to take the bus,” Michael says as he pours Jeremy a glass of lemonade. “This way, we can sleep in.”

Jeremy doesn’t say that they’re going to have to get up early anyway because the meet starts at nine, and if past experiences are anything to go by, he knows that getting Michael to get up in the morning is an ordeal that takes at least an hour and a half. Instead, he just smiles and rushes to scribble in the rest of the answers to his pre-calc homework. 

“What does Tangent squared of theta plus one equal?” Jeremy asks after a minute. He looks up at Michael, who is just staring at him blankly, a spoonful of cereal halfway up to meet his mouth. “Is it secant? Or is it cosecant?”

“Um, not sure.”

Jeremy stares at his almost-completed math homework and then caps his pen. He’ll figure it out later. For now, he has time to spend with Michael, and honestly, he’s missed Michael. Quite a lot more than he wants to admit if he were to be completely truthful about it. One thing he hasn’t missed is the weird flutters he gets, when Michael walks around the table and hovers by Jeremy’s shoulder, plucking the pen from his hands and nibbling on the end as he stares at the unfinished problem.

“Secant squared,” Michael says finally. “I’m pretty sure.” he leans over Jeremy and scribbles down the equation, and then, right in the corner of the paper, writes out a key labeling all the trig identities. At least Jeremy assumes he’s doing that. He’s too entranced by the view of Michael, eyes skimming up the length of his arm, to how his face is barely five inches away. 

He takes a breath and wonders how the hell he keeps finding himself in these situations. Deep down, some part of him wonders if, maybe, Michael is doing this on purpose. 

But then Michael pulls back and punches the back of Jeremy’s neck, leaving just as quickly as he came, telling Jeremy to hurry up and finish so they can start playing video games already.

“We gotta get past that casino heist level,” Michael says as grabs some salt and vinegar chips out from the pantry. Jeremy almost gags at the sight of them, and Michael rolls his eyes. It should be funny and annoying, but it isn’t, and Jeremy is shocked to realize that he finds the exasperated look on Michael's face rather endearing. “Just finish your homework already, Jer.”

Jeremy does, but he feels weird the whole time doing it, a sour feeling in his stomach that leaves him wondering when these stupid feelings will ever go away.

*

Jeremy wakes Michael up by sitting on him.

It’s quite easy. He taps his phone screen to end his alarm and gets dressed quickly. It’s 7:15, a perfect time to start to get ready. This way, they can actually go out and get breakfast, and not rush to get to the school last minute. 

“Michael,” Jeremy says gently. He pokes Michael’s cheek and pulls lightly at the flop of curls that messily tangle across his forehead, some even tickling the top of his nose. “Get up now, we gotta get ready.”

Michael groans and pulls the covers up and over his head. One foot is sticking out, leg hanging over the edge of the bed, and Jeremy goes to pull at it, hoping to at least start Michael into waking up, but all Michael does is kick him right in the gut, and Jeremy huffs and decides what to do.

He crawls into the bed and sits right on Michael’s stomach. Cross-legged, fingers drumming on his knees, and he doesn’t move until Michael is wheezing and pulls the duvet down from where it covers his head.

“Get your bony ass off of me!” he exclaims. Jeremy only hums.

“Depends on if you plan to get up and out of bed,” he snorts back. Michael peers up at him with squinted eyes, although Jeremy doesn’t know if it’s because he can’t see him properly without his glasses, or if he’s trying to glare. Jeremy just smiles innocently. “Come on, Michael. Spend some time with me.”

Michael grins. “Alright.”

Suddenly, the world is tipping, and Jeremy feels a pair of arms, strong and sturdy and warm, wrapped around his middle and tugging him down. Down until his head knocks against a pillow that’s way too soft, soft enough that his head sinks right through it, and a feather escapes through its case and flies into the air. There’s movement to his right, and suddenly Michael is looking down at him, using one arm to hold himself up, elbow dipping into the mattress, while the other is still thrown over Jeremy’s torso. Jeremy can feel his chest tighten, lungs constricted. Instantly, it's so much harder to breathe.

“We can spend time together here. With me still sleeping and you as my personal cuddle buddy,” Michael says with a laugh.

“We gotta go,” Jeremy says, but he sounds feeble and weak and confused, because he doesn’t know why this keeps happening, and what he’s been doing to deserve all of this. It hurts, to find himself thrust into these kinds of situations where he just wants to grab Michael by his stupid face and kiss him.

 _Oh_ , Jeremy thinks blatantly, _that’s what I want to do._

Michael sighs, and he looks past Jeremy at the clock that faces him, one with blinking blue numbers that read 7:34, and he says, “Just one more minute.”

Jeremy doesn’t know what do say to that. So he opts to not say anything at all. Instead, he looks up at Michael’s ceiling, at the posters that hang crooked on his walls, at his sweatshirt that sits in a crumpled heap on the ground. Anywhere but at Michael’s face. The weight of Michael’s arms shifts, and Jeremy’s shirt wrinkles up and he feels Michael’s arm touch the skin of his hip, and it makes his toes curl and his fingers clench the duvet by his side.

There’s a jolt of energy in Jeremy’s body and it’s like every part of him is quivering with anticipation as he finally looks back at Michael, and he doesn’t even think, he just… takes the jump.

His hands dart out and grab the sides of Michael’s face and he yanks him down and he kisses him. Michael’s mouth is warm and his lips are chapped and it should be gross because they both haven’t brushed their teeth but it’s just lips, and nothing more, and that makes the warm fuzzy feeling in Jeremy’s chest blossom even more. He feels the wetness of droll that hasn’t quite dried yet on the corner of Michael’s mouth, and Michael’s hand squeezes Jeremy’s hip and that’s when Jeremy realizes what he’s doing.

He pulls away so hard and so fast that his head whacks against the wooden headboard. A sharp, sudden spark of pain webs its way from the back of his head and spreads throughout his skull hard enough that tears prickle behind his eyes for a second until Jeremy can blink them away. He is frozen only for a moment, and in that moment he looks at Michael’s face and it’s enough to make him scramble out of the bed, pulling the covers off with him as he stumbles to the door, one hand pressing against the place where he hit his head. 

“‘M getting cereal,” Jeremy croaks, but he’s so quiet and his voice is thick and heavy he doesn’t even know if Michael heard him, let alone understood what he said.

Jeremy walks stiffly to the kitchen and holds back the urge to slam his head into the wall. He grabs himself a bowl from the cabinet and takes out the milk and the cereal. Lucky Charms, something that Michael makes sure his mother buys only because he knows it’s Jeremy’s favorite, and for that reason alone. The thought makes Jeremy taste something sour in the back of his throat, and he pretends not the notice how his hands shake so badly when he pours the milk into the bowl, that some of it splashed over and makes a little white puddle on the counter. He wipes it up with the bottom of his shirt and sits down at the table and just stares, spoon moving in slow circles as his stomach churns.

It takes fifteen minutes for Michael to arrive in the kitchen. He’s dressed sloppily, wearing the shirt he wore the sleep, and his jeans are wrinkled and Jeremy wonders if he took them out of the hamper. He opens his mouth to say something then doesn’t, and Jeremy is grateful, because if Michael so much as uttered his name, he thinks he might just break down right there.

So they don’t speak. Jeremy eats his cereal and looks down into his bowl, stares at the marshmallow charms leaking their colors into his milk, making it a muddy brown color. He doesn’t look up and he doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t think about the kiss.

When they finally get into the car, Michael asks, “So, uh, how’s your head?” But Jeremy doesn’t answer because thinking back makes him want to cry and scream and punch something, and Michael seems to take the hint because he mumbles, “Good talk,” and starts to do that stupid thing that he always does when he’s stressed out, where he grinds his teeth and pulls at the skin of his cuticles and gnaws at the corner of his lip. Jeremy forces himself to look out the window and not at Michael’s mouth, because he knows if he looks too long, it’ll make things worse, and nothing Jeremy can say will turn back time, and he no longer has a voice in his head (consistently, at least, he thinks bitterly) that can tell him what to do to fix this issue— although he should probably be grateful for that, for the squip’s idea of fixing this would just be to abandon Michael and never speak to him again.

If he’s lucky, Jeremy will still have a friend by the end of this. 

Right when they pull up to the school, Jeremy leaves the car. Michael says his name and maybe something else, but Jeremy ignores him and runs into the side door that connects to the gym, where Andrew is pulling out some of the mats. He sees Jeremy and waves him over.

“There you are. Here, help me drag this out to the track.” Andrew nods over at one of the thick velcro handles, and Jeremy grips it with both hands and pulls it up with him. It’s heavy, and only levitates about four inches above the ground, and so Jeremy is bending over and stumbling as he walks backward with it. “Where’s Michael?” Andrew asks as he directs Jeremy out the door, and they quickly revolve so that Andrew is now the one walking backward.

“Don’t know,” Jeremy says. It’s not a total lie. He has an idea. Either Michael is performing his duties as water boy easily and perfectly, without any sign of bother, or he’s still in the car thinking about how he can break off the friendship with Jeremy without hurting his feelings too much. 

Because that’s what happens, right? You kiss your best friend and they leave you. No one just moves on from that; no one just stays, after something like that. 

“You ready for the jump today?” Andrew asks. Jeremy wants to say no, but there’s this itch under his skin, a kind of angsty energy that makes him want to run mile after mile, and he wonders if, maybe, this could work to his advantage. This abundance of nervous energy, knotted in his stomach and tightening his throat, all of it expanding with each breath. Maybe, just maybe, he can use it to push himself faster, higher.

So he nods. “Yeah,” he says.

Andrew smiles brilliantly at that. “Great! The first meet is always the worst, trust me. I didn’t really clear a real jump until my third meet. Nervous, I guess.”

Jeremy huffs out a breath, and it’s half a laugh and half a sound of exhaustion. They’re halfway to the field now, and Jeremy’s shoulders are really starting to get sore. Fuck, this thing is heavy. Andrew seems to feel the same way, because he calls out to a few seated track members and they rush to come and help, hoisting the mat up and lessening the weight significantly. Of course, Michael is one of those people, and he tries to catch Jeremy’s eye, but Jeremy is sure to only look at Andrew or the way his knuckles are turning white from clutching onto the strap of the mat.

The other schools arrive right after they set up the mat. Michael is called off with other volunteers to set up tables for fundraising bake sales and school spirit attire, and Jeremy feels relief roll over him as he watches him walk away. His event is after the eight-hundred-meter run, so he has quite a bit of time on his hands. He spends it by showing the visiting athletes where the facilities are and even hanging back with Katie and her friends. They toss goldfish into each other's mouths and for that precious hour, Jeremy has forgotten all about the morning and Michael and the fact that his closest friendship is soon going to meet a rather unsightly end. The tightness in his chest loosens and he’s clutching his middle as he doubles over in laughter, when Katie stops laughing.

“Jeremy, is everything okay?” She asks suddenly, and Jeremy’s smile slowly falls.

“Yeah, why?”

“Because Michael is walking over here,” she says, “and he looks rather pissed off.”

Jeremy feels any clinging remains of previous giddiness erased as he turns his head and sees Michael stalking over to him. He has a rather sour look on his face, as if he’s tasted something particularly bad and can’t spit it out. Jeremy scrambles to his feet and hesitates, weighing his options; either run away and be hunted down (and also cause a scene), or approach Michael and hope that it will work out well. Because about seven people are already staring at him, and Michael seems about angry enough that he wouldn’t mind chasing Jeremy around if it meant finally getting to speak with him, Jeremy decides with the lather.

He walks briskly towards Michael, taking long strides and stopping within just a few feet of him. “Michael,” Jeremy says, only slightly squirming.

Michael walks closer to him and frowns, dark eyebrows creasing his skin into worried lines. “Jeremy-”

Suddenly, there’s a yell and a loud clang, and Jeremy jerks his head to the side only to see a kid slowly sitting up from where he has fallen on the track. There is a hurdle laying flat on the ground next to him. His hands cover his face, and he groans and Jeremy can just see a fat droplet of blood drip off his chin and splatter on the gravel of the track.

Instantly, there’s students and some parent volunteers that circle around the kid. Jeremy walks forward, pulling away from Michael and looking over crouched bodies just to see the complete wreckage that is the kid's nose. Blood smeared everywhere, dark and… and pulpy. Something twists in Jeremy’s gut and there’s an empty ache right at the base of his throat. For a second, he thinks he might vomit, but then someone’s touching his wrist and he looks and sees Michael, and he swallows the feeling down. 

“I’ll get paper towels,” Jeremy says quietly. No one hears him, and so he says it louder, taking off towards the school. He runs to the nearest door and pulls, only to find it locked.

“Next door to the left.” Michael jogs up next to him, nodding over to a door that’s cracked open, a clear sign noting that the family bathroom is down the hallway. “The school’s locked the other ones.”

Jeremy doesn’t respond, just walks quickly to the other door, Michael right behind him the whole time.

“You have to say something,” Michael snaps. “Eventually, I mean. I won’t leave you alone until you agree to hear me out.” Jeremy doesn’t respond, just pushes the bathroom door open with such force that it swings open and bangs loudly against the wall, making both Michael and him cringe. Michael grinds his teeth so loudly Jeremy can hear it. “Are you seriously going to ignore me for the entire day?”

“Yes,” Jeremy finally says. 

“Well, I’m going to be extremely annoying.”

“You always are,” Jeremy responds. He reaches for the towel dispenser, waving his hand frantically in front of the sensor, but nothing comes out. He squints to see through the hazy blue plastic and sees the empty roll.

Michael keeps talking. “And- And I won’t leave you alone.”

“You never do.” Jeremy goes to the other napkin dispenser. Same thing. Empty.

“I’ll distract you when you jump.”

“I don’t care.”

Michael lets out a high-pitched whine, but it isn’t a weak sound. It’s angry, desperate, and frustrated. “Jeremy, please, let’s just _talk_.”

“No,” Jeremy says. 

It’s quiet, and then Michael says, “I hate it when you ignore me,” all soft and cold, as if that’s somehow possible, to sound so harsh and mean and at the same time so sad— and… and it’s heartbreaking, Jeremy realizes, to hear that. “I fucking hate it and you _know_ I hate it, so why the _fuck_ are you doing it?”

Jeremy doesn’t know. “I don’t know,” he says. And then, “There aren’t any napkins left.”

Michael says nothing, just stares at him. He reaches for the custodian closet door, and it opens. They both step inside, where the light bulb is flickering and it is barely bright enough. The door clicks softly behind them, and Jeremy pushes aside store-brand disinfectants and cleaners and one or two mousetraps before he finds a big roll of the cheap paper napkins his school uses.

“I just want to forget it,” Jeremy says suddenly. He turns around and faces Michael and bites his lip that keeps wobbling, the roll of paper napkins heavy in his hands. “I don’t know why I did it and I just want to forget it ever happened.”

Michael swallows. “Is that really what you want?”

Jeremy doesn’t answer.

“I just- I wanna say that-”

“Don’t,” Jeremy says, because he knows what's coming, he knows what’s going to happen, and being here, in the dusty old custodian closet, holding a roll of paper napkins for a kid who’s bleeding heavily from what might be a broken nose back on the field, isn’t the place Jeremy wants to hear it.

He doesn’t want to hear Michael apologize for not feeling the same way, or for not wanting what Jeremy did to ever happen again. He doesn’t want to face his best friend and wonder if things will ever be the same.

Because they won’t. They never will be. And it’s all Jeremy’s fault.

(He knows he should stay. He knows he should hear Michael out because Michael deserves that. He deserves to speak and to be listened to, but Jeremy can’t. He’s horrible and what he did was wrong and what he wants to do now is even worse, but he does it anyway because nothing can hurt more than what he knows is about to come out of Michael’s mouth.)

Jeremy turns around and leaves.

Or at least, he tries to.

Because when he twists the door handle to open it, it doesn’t move. Just clicks and refuses to turn.

Jeremy’s stomach drops.

“Seriously?!” Michael exclaims. “You’re gonna leave? God, Jeremy, you’re such an asshole!”

“I-”

“I’m trying to figure this out and you avoid me and the second I think you’re gonna hear me out, you opt to just head out and not even listen. Do you even care?”

“Yes,” Jeremy says, glaring at Michael over his shoulder. “Yes, but I don’t want to do this right now.”

Michael crosses his arms in front of his chest and snarls, “So when, then? Tomorrow? Next week? Because it seems like you don’t want to listen to me at all. Ever.”

“Well,” Jeremy starts, but he doesn’t finish. He doesn’t know what to say. He just pulls at the handle again and it just makes the door shake in its frame and he lets out a frustrated groan.

“What, am I frustrating you?” Michael spits. “Making you upset?”

“The fucking door’s stuck,” Jeremy enunciates. “If I’m upset, it’s not at you.” He pulls the handle again. Nothing.

“Well… now you have to hear me out,” Michael presses.

Jeremy turns around and leans his back against the door. “I suppose I do.”

Michael nods. “Alright,” he says.

“Okay.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” Jeremy mumbles. He waits a minute, and then another, and Michael isn't saying anything, isn’t even looking at him, just watching his feet with narrowed eyes.

“I-I had this, well, planned out in my head,” Michael starts. “But- I don’t know how to say it, now.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake.” Jeremy turns around and bangs on the door.

Jeremy pulls at the handle. It bangs hard against its frame. Jeremy pulls again. Nothing happens.

“You kissed me this morning,” Michael says gently. Hearing that come out of Michael’s mouth makes a surge of heat rush through Jeremy’s body. It’s embarrassing and stunning and shameful. Jeremy huffs out a quick breath and pushes the door this time. It doesn’t budge. He pushes again. And again. Then he pulls it so sharply that the doorknob actually rattles in his hand.

“Fucking- come on.” He drops the paper napkin roll by his feet, and it rolls until it hits the wall, slightly unraveled.

“Jeremy.”

“God-“

“Jeremy.” Fingers wrap around his wrist, warm and stubby and dry, and Jeremy stops breathing as Michael pulls his hand away from the door. “It’s stuck.”

Jeremy wants to cry. Or maybe scream. Or maybe a little bit of everything. He feels Michael come up from behind him, pressed maybe a little too close as he reaches forward and tries to twist the handle, hand slipping over Jeremy’s. 

“I know it’s stuck,” Jeremy says, turning around. They’re so close, and Jeremy realizes that he keeps finding himself in this situation, stuck in place so close in proximity to Michael that one more step and every part of them would be touching. This keeps happening, and Jeremy keeps feeling these… feelings and he blatantly realizes that this is never going to end. It’s inevitable, completely useless to avoid it because he _still wants it_ , and as horrible as that realization is, he finds a small bit of comfort in knowing that being stuck in this stupid closet at least gives him the excuse to stand so close to Michael, at least for one last time.

“You kissed me this morning,” Michael says again.

“I did,” Jeremy says. His voice is shaking.

“Yeah,” Michael says slowly. “And I liked it.”

It’s like a bucket of ice has been poured over his head, and Jeremy feels the sudden heavy pull of something in his stomach. 

Slowly, deliberately, Michael’s hand brushes against the sliver of skin of Jeremy’s hip that peeks out from under the hem of his jersey. Jeremy shivers. Michael looks at him and does it again, fingers sliding up and parting away damp fabric, palm cool against hot skin. He pushes his hand right on the flat of Jeremy’s stomach, tips of his fingers barely curling around his waist. It feels refreshing, it feels free, it feels like everything Jeremy could have ever wanted.

“I liked it, Jer,” Michael says again.

“Fuck,” Jeremy whispers, and Michael kisses him.

He misses. They’re basically the same height but Michael is the slightest bit shorter and their noses bump and his lips mash into the corner of Jeremy’s mouth in a silent peck. “Shit,” Michael mumbles, and Jeremy wants to laugh but he can’t because any sound is swallowed up by Michael really kissing him. He presses his head against the door, smooths his hands over Jeremy’s stomach, and kisses him.

Jeremy knows he has shouldn’t be liking this. He knows the only reason they went to this bathroom in the first place was to help that kid with his nosebleed. He knows that they’re stuck in a stupid storage closet and both their phones are in Michael’s car and along with them any hope of getting out of here within the time he needs to be called up to the field. But Jeremy also knows he’s been aching for this for much longer than he ever knew he was. Kissing him this morning didn’t feel like even a fraction of what it feels now that the motions are actually being reciprocated; it feels like an accumulation of all the best feelings in the world, kissing Michael. And it isn’t the kiss, really, it’s the knowledge that Michael is the one kissing him. Michael, who has been by his side since forever, who puts ice on his back and lets him nap in his bed and wakes him up with takeout from his favorite place. Michael, who drives him and sits with him and plays video games with him. Michael, who he thought was going to just leave after this morning; Michael, who he’s kissing right fucking now.

Woah.

Jeremy parts his lips, and Michael presses a bit more, just slightly, and it’s hotter around them and really, really stuffy. Jeremy pulls away and asks in a croaky, breathy voice, “Do you think we can die of carbon dioxide poisoning in here?”

Michael blinks and answers, “Don’t know. Maybe?” and pulls Jeremy in for another kiss, both hands now cupping his face and smoothing under his jaw. Oddly and terrifyingly enough, it feels good and Jeremy wants to moan, but he doesn’t because he likes just this. He likes the kissing, the occasional smooth feeling of Michael’s tongue along his mouth, the light nips on his lips when they pull away to gulp down another breath of air. 

At one point, Jeremy pulls Michael’s hand back down to touch his waist under his shirt, and Michael grips him there, soft pads of his fingers pressing just a bit too hard into his skin. Jeremy gasps and Michael presses his lips hard against the base of his throat, teeth barely scratching the surface of his skin but still there nonetheless and Jeremy wants to writhe at the jolt of adrenaline that pulses through him, settling at the base of his spine in a knot. He bites the inside of his cheek so hard that he tastes the bitter iron of blood in his mouth, and his nails dig into Michael’s arms because this is so new and so fresh and so, so _good._

And then the door clicks open and Jeremy feels it push into his back.

Jeremy shoves Michael away, and he trips backward over a mop, only barely catching himself before he hits the ground. 

“What the- something’s blocking the door,” someone says, and Jeremy has half the mind to scramble out of the way. In the doorway are three boys, all of them wearing jerseys from the school of the boy who had the nosebleed. They see Michael first, and one with the bold number 12 offers his hand. Michael stares at it and takes it.

“We were stuck,” Michael says slowly, dumbly. The three boys just stare, and Jeremy picks up the paper napkin roll from off the ground and hands it to the boy who opened the door. He takes it, dark eyes flirting between Jeremy and Michael questionably.

“Um, what event is starting now?” Jeremy croaks.

“They just finished the eight-hundred,” Number 12 says. 

Jeremy’s stomach drops.

“Shit,” he says. He looks back at Michael. “Shit, I have to- I need-“ The boys scatter away from the door, and Jeremy rushes past them. “I need to jump,” Jeremy finally says to Michael, and he runs out the door.

*

He pushes off with his left foot, knee straightening as he pictures throwing all of his weight in through the ground. Naturally, his right knee bends close to his stomach and his neck ticks so his chin brushes against his chest, and he turns so he’s staring at the sky.

It has never looked more beautiful. 

Maybe it’s because of the kids, or maybe it’s because Jeremy knows he’s got the jump cleared this time, even before hitting the mat, but for some reason, his whole body feels light, and for a second, it feels like he’s truly flying.

Quickly, Jeremy looks past his shoulder and is sure to watch his feet ease over the pole, making impact with the mat and rolling over in a ball naturally. His heart is thumping heavily in his chest, pumped with adrenaline and excitement and something else, something hot and stinging that may or may not be because of Michael.

Michael.

God, even thinking of his name makes him have the strangest urge to smile.

The woman taking down the heights asks for his name, and he gives it to her along with his school name. “Alright Jeremy, you reached 5’4. We have three more leapers, and then we’re raising it another inch,” she says with a small smile, and then she nods her head over to a line near the fence that lines the track field. “You can wait over there and observe quietly. Please be courteous of the other leapers and try to remain quiet.”.

Jeremy turns to the fence and jogs there, although it isn’t jogging much as it is skipping because Jeremy is so happy and everything is going right and he’s practically hopping up on every step. Andrew is also in line, near the front, and although he doesn’t say anything, he gives Jeremy a big thumbs up. Katie is leaning against the fence, chewing her gum obnoxiously.

“Nice jump,” she greets.

“Thanks. I never asked you how your race went.”

Katie shrugs. “Coach put me in the hundred meter sprint, despite my email,” she mumbles. “I still got second, but I hate sprints. Long distance is so much more…” She waves her hand dismissively.

“Easier?” Jeremy supplies. “Better?”

“Challenging,” Katie finishes. “What’s the point of running if you’re not gonna be tired after it? Winning with effort feels much better than winning without an issue. At least then you feel like you actually deserved it. Like you put a lot of work into it.”

Jeremy shrugs. “I guess. I don’t like running.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know. Too tiring, I guess.”

That isn’t the truth. The truth is that running reminds him of skipping homework time to go to the gym and listening and obeying to a stupid computer that was supposed to do something good to him. Sure, maybe gaining that extra core and leg strength and not being a scrawny sophomore anymore did wonders to his confidence, but now he can’t look at a treadmill without hearing the echo of a voice, smooth and snarky, small snips of memories he’d rather be buried rising up and making his stomach plummet.

“Running’s not for everyone,” is all Katie says, and then she watches the other remaining students jump, and they stand in silence.

Jeremy passes the bar two more times easily. Michael comes to watch as it’s raised up to 5’6. He cheers loudly when Jeremy makes it on his second try, and the woman taking down the heights and names gives him a sharp look that makes his ears flush red. Jeremy only snickers and crawls off the mat, holding back the urge to simply run over to Michael and hop over the fence and hug him.

“Hey,” he says when he reaches the fence.

“Hey,” Michael replies. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Jeremy sees Katie talking to Andrew, both of them laughing together and occasionally looking over to glance at either Jeremy or Michael. Jeremy briefly wonders if it’s obvious, what happened.

“Don’t know,” Michael says, and Jeremy realizes he must’ve spoken out loud. “And honestly, who cares?”

“I don’t,” Jeremy immediately says. Michael stares at him, and he feels his face go red. “Care, I mean. I meant that I don’t care about them knowing. Anyone, really. Anyone can know.”

Michael lets out a breath of a laugh. “Good,” he says. “Although, we should really define exactly what… _this_ is.”

Jeremy opens his mouth to speak, but then some boy is tapping him on the shoulder, nodding towards the pole, and Jeremy pulls away with an apologetic look aimed at Michael.

Define it, he thinks as he counts his paces from the pole, turning around and taking a deep breath. He closes his eyes and he starts to run.

He knows he’s going to miss the bar the second he jumps into the air. His momentum wasn’t enough and he feels the cold metal of the pole hit the side of his shoulder, and as he hits the mat, he expects to feel some kind of disappointment.

It’s there, but it’s not that bad. He looks at Andrew and Kate, who are giving him sad smiles but still holding their thumbs up high in the air. He looks at Michael, who is watching him with his hands stuffed in his pockets and one of his earbuds pressed into his ear. 

A surge of anticipation rushes through him, and he tells himself that it’s okay that he didn’t really get to where he wants to. After all, there’s always the next meet. It can only get better from here.

*

“Let’s define it,” Jeremy says to Michael after he’s told the coach that he’s leaving early. Michael flips his car keys in his hands, only he misses, and they drop to the pavement in an embarrassing clink.

“Now?” Michael asks.

Jeremy shrugs. “What’ve we got to lose?”

“If we don’t define it right away? The precious time where I could be calling you my boyfriend,” answers Michael right away.

Jeremy doesn’t know what to say to that. “Aren’t there supposed to be a few dates first?” he asks.

Michael shrugs. “There could be. There definitely will be, no matter what we call this.”

Inside the car, Michael ramps up the heat because it’s February and it’s always cold. Immediately, Jeremy feels his seat warm up beneath him, and hesitantly, he reaches over and puts his hand over Michael’s, where it curls over the gear-shift.

“I think we should go out first,” Jeremy says. “Then define it.”

Michael smiles. “Alright then, ask me out.”

Jeremy rolls his eyes. “Seriously? I just did.”

“Did what?”

“Asked you out.”

“Sorry, I’m a tad bit deaf in this ear. You should speak up next time.”

Jeremy sighs, and then asks, “Will you go out with me?”

Michael hums and doesn’t speak for a few seconds. “Well, technically, we’re already out- Ow!”

Jeremy rubs the spot where he hit Michael on the shoulder and says, “Michael, will you go out on a date with me?”

Michael laughs. “Oh my god, this is so unexpected, Jeremy. I didn’t even know you _felt_ this way about me-“

Jeremy cuts him off with a chaste peck on the lips. “You’re such an idiot.”

Michael smiles dumbly. “And?”

Jeremy rolls his eyes and pulls away. “And I love it.”

 

EPILOGUE:

It’s a Thursday night, Jeremy has an English essay on sexism in advertisements and a biology lab report focusing on cellular respiration due in less than three hours, and he’s in the school gym.

It’s late. But the janitors gave him permission to practice here, and Jeremy figures he’ll take the credit off for handing in both his assignments in a day after they’re due, or else lie about computer connection problems. What’s important now is getting this jump down, because Saturday is the biggest meet of the year, and he’s determined to not fuck it up.

Michael watches, because apparently watching Jeremy jump is one of the hottest things ever.

His words, not Jeremy’s.

“Beautiful!” Michael calls out.

“I hit the pole.”

Michael shrugs with a smirk. “Hitting the bar doesn’t make you ugly.”

“Stop distracting me with horrible flirting.”

“Can’t be _that_ horrible. You’re blushing.”

“I’m blushing because I’m embarrassed for you. It truly is horrible.”

Michael pouts as Jeremy lines himself up for another jump. “Rude.”

The bar is high; it’s set at six feet exactly, a height that even the best jumper on their team, a girl named Alexa, sometimes struggles with. Jeremy’s best steady jump is 5’8, something that isn’t great but isn’t all that terrible either. Most of the good jumpers on the team, except Jeremy, have cleared a six-foot jump at least once. He’s practicing extra in order to change that.

“Make it or not, we can get Wendy’s before I drop you off,” Michael says to him. Jeremy’s stomach growls, but he can’t help but laugh.

“Romantic.”

“Only the best for you, babe.”

Jeremy takes a deep breath and runs. He curves into a shallow arc and bends his knees slightly and twists his body around, arching his back and exhaling, his elbows tight by his side and shoulders pinched together at his back. He’s in the air only for two seconds, but time seems to slow as he arches over the pole. It feels like the air beneath him is holding him up like nothing will ever push him down. It’s the highest jump he’s cleared and everything inside of him is tense and waiting, anticipation curling in his stomach. The crown of his head hits the mat first, followed by the rest of his body, and he opens his eyes to see Michael looking down at him with a big smile. Jeremy feels airy, and his whole body is tingling.

“You did it! We should celebrate! Lots of Wendy’s!” Michael laughs. He offers his hand and Jeremy takes it, but instead of letting himself be pulled up, he yanks Michael down. 

Michael stumbles and lands basically right on top of him, hands pressed into the mat on either side of Jeremy’s head, knee sinking into the empty space between Jeremy’s thighs. Jeremy doesn’t let himself freeze or panic, just asks, “Did I look cool?”

Michael swallows, and his eyes flit down to Jeremy’s lips when he croaks out, “So fucking cool.” Jeremy’s heart jumps and his stomach flips, and he pulls Michael down by the collar of his hoodie and kisses him.

It’s… a kiss. There aren’t fireworks or stars that burst behind his eyelids, but maybe he doesn’t need that. Because, right now, all that matters is the steadiness of Michael pressed close to him, and the little hum he makes in surprise, and the way he melts into Jeremy, groaning against his mouth.

Jeremy’s lips tingle and his heart races, half from adrenaline and half from the way one of Michael’s hands smoothes down his side and curls over the sharpness of his hip. Jeremy sighs and his teeth scratch against Michael’s bottom lip as he twists his fingers in his hair. He gives a little tug, and in response, Michael squeezes his hip, making Jeremy’s skin burn.

Jeremy pulls back and presses multiple hard kisses down Michael's neck, the tip of his nose poking into his skin in a way that might be uncomfortable, but Jeremy can't tell because Michael is too busy sighing and breathing audibly for Jeremy to think anything of it. He loves this. He loves how Michael's thigh barely brushes up between his own and suddenly his hands are shaking and he has to push Michael away for a few seconds to control himself. Michael pauses, and then slowly brushes his lips against the tip of Jeremy's nose.

Jeremy knows they have to leave soon. They have to take down the practice equipment and fold the mat and shove it into the storage closet, and they only have maybe ten more minutes before he knows the janitor will peek his head in and force them to leave, but all of it slips his mind slowly as Michael presses his nose into the soft skin of Jeremy’s neck and sighs before kissing the underside of his chin. Jeremy’s pulse jumps and he has the indescribable urge to hug Michael and squeeze him against his chest forever. 

But the clock is ticking, and he has a curfew, so Jeremy does the next best thing and drags Michael back up to him. He’s flushed and his glasses are crooked on his nose, so Jeremy reaches up and repositions them, and then he leans up on an elbow and brushes his lips against Michael’s nose, his cheek, and then parts his lips and kisses him straight on the mouth. Over and over until Michael pants into his mouth, pulling away only to take a breath before he kisses Jeremy again. And again. And again.

It’s a pretty awesome way to celebrate.

**Author's Note:**

> i wish i was good at track still but alas, i will just have to settle for watching from the sideline. i can't stand having to look at this in my drafts any longer, so although im not one hundred percent happy about how this turned out, at least its something. now, at least, i can start to work on better, hopefully more improved, things. 
> 
> hope you enjoyed! ps: whoever can figure out the book jeremy is reading gets free cookies.


End file.
